


Stage Lights

by HungryLibrary



Category: RWBY
Genre: AU, F/F, doesn't quite feel modern, exactly what time period can't figure out, hints of a white rose start, mainly weiss introscpection, the mysteriously secret if not subtle admirer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-05
Updated: 2015-01-05
Packaged: 2018-03-03 06:02:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2840717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HungryLibrary/pseuds/HungryLibrary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Weiss has been dragged from one stage to another for her entire life. </p>
<p>She likes concert stages the best (even if that isn't saying much) Singing is a passion of hers that not even her family's approval can taint- But even that gets dull under the same careless flashing camera lights, the same polite, respectable encores...</p>
<p>And then one day, there’s a break in the orderly applause.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stage Lights

They always gave her white roses.

Pale flowers with what looked like a thousand petals each. Thornless, naturally. No admirer would wish pricked fingers on dainty little Weiss Schnee, heiress before all else but with refined singer in close second.

Weiss liked to use the bouquets in her fencing lessons.

Tie them together, then bind the mess to one of the straw dummies and litter the floor with drifts of un-melting snow.

Her parents did not, of course, approve of such behavior.

Neither did they have any other real suggestions on how to dispose of the unending tide of blossoms- There were far too many for Weiss to dry and keep as mementos. At least this way, so Weiss had argued, they could be put to some real use.

If there was any guaranteed path to a Schnee’s heart, common sense practicality might be it.

So her parents scowled and scolded but gave no orders against her shredding of gifts after every concert.

Perhaps they allowed her this for other reasons as well. Perhaps they gave her small leniencies in the hope it would forestall larger ‘fits’ of rebellion.

Perfect Miss Weiss might seem to the rest of the world, not quite so to her own discerning family.

Her enjoyment of swords as well as songs did not please them.

Oh it was a genteel enough sport in its own right, far better than many she could have chosen, still her honest passion for it took up precious time. Time that would have been better spent rememorizing three generations worth of Dust related knowledge and ambition.

Then there was her wardrobe. Dresses and skirts became a lady at dinner parties, not so much every waking moment of her life.

‘What about rumors of indecency?’ went the conversation at meal times, as if Weiss were not presently trapped between the two ends of the otherwise empty table.

‘Would not a well-fitted suit and slacks be more comfortable? Even more convenient for sword sparring?’

It was a mark of their desperation that they would appeal to one of their daughter’s inadequate ‘obsessions’, and it made Weiss smirk inwardly with triumph.

She wore skirts because she liked them.

She wore them daily because, contrary to popular and pompous belief, they actually were perfect for practicing footwork and form in.

An appropriately short hem freed the legs and would not entangle your blade- Weiss also had the suspicion that the sight of bare thighs would be more than sufficient to distract at least half of the opponents she might one day face.

The fact that they drove her parent’s mad was, she told herself, nothing more than the icing on the cake.

Last but not least on the list of quibbles: Weiss’s hair.

True it was neatly bound up in an elegantly high ponytail- A ponytail that was off center just enough to be notable.

‘Artless asymmetry’ her father called it. ‘An uncouth throwback to the most recent fashions among people who had nothing better to do than abandon the classics.’

Gazing into her mirror though a haze of despairingly white roses, Weiss adjusted her coif just a little more to right than usual.

Snowy locks trailed past her shoulder and Weiss nodded in sadisfaction at the effect.

She would sing if her parents thought the publicity so important to the family business. She would perform on each stage they booked for her, and each time improve her recital of the songs they chose.

The devotees and aficionados would be encouraged through a sheer continued lack of discouragement- Weiss drew the line at mingling with them personally, her parents being already more than capable of choosing the richest and most influential of her fans for personal invites back to the Schnee stronghold.

Weiss, despite what her parents might sometimes think, did not want to ruin her family’s image or business.

However Weiss was also an heiress, first and before all else.

The Schnee Dust Company would be hers one day. It would be her job to follow in her father and grandfather’s footsteps, so they said…

But they seemed to have forgotten one of the very first lessons they had given Weiss.

‘Schnees were leaders and pioneers, not followers.’

And how, Weiss reasoned to herself, could you possibly be a pioneer if you were exactly like all those who had come before you?

There was the knock on her dressing room door. There was her signal to go forth and awe yet another crowd.

Time to be Miss Schnee again.

Time enough later for Weiss to make her debut.

…. Still, while walking out onto the polished mirror of the stage, she had to admit…

It would be nice someday, to be given a flower that didn’t make some simpering play on her name.

-

The song ended without incident.

It took Weiss a moment to come back to herself, for even pre-prescribed music tended to have an enchanting effect on her.

Polite applause broke out. She dropped a curtsy as the cameras flashed.

Always the pictures, taken during the song just as often as before or after, people more interested in having proof of attending the concert than listening to what their tickets had bought-

A sudden shout nearly sent Weiss wobbling to the floor.

“Bravo! Bravo!” Came the lone but enthusiastic cry. “Wooo yes! _Bravo!_ ”

The shock of it made Weiss’s pulse thunder. Startled blue eyes came up and went casting around the crowd for the –obviously uncultured and insane- person who was sending ripples of confused murmurs through the hall.

It was a hopeless search.

Everything beyond her circle of light was swallowed in featureless sparkling black- she might as well have tried to spot crow against the night sky.

But the excited voice kept on its cheering, and curiosity made Weiss hesitate.

Hesitate too long apparently.

The spotlight began to dim, her cue to make a poised turn and graceful exit off stage. She did so without one backward glance.

Down came the curtains like a wall of silence between her the lingering applause.

Heart still beating at a tempo rather faster than normal, Weiss felt an odd twist at the corner of her lips.

A smile.

A small but barbless one.

It was still there when she reached her dressing room. The mirror reflected it as clearly as it reflected the scar over her left eye- a scar that was suddenly no longer the focus of her features.

Another knock at the door interrupted her inspection.

Annoyed, though not nearly as much as she would have been if her mind wasn’t still preoccupied, Weiss invited the valet in without bothering to look around.

“Miss Schnee? Another gift was just left for you.”

“Please put it with the others.” Weiss schooled her face back into its normal bland indifference. “And bring me the card if it’s looks the sort my parent’s would like to keep.”

“Ah…” A shuffle and a pause before the valet spoke up again.

“There doesn’t seem to be a card, Miss Schnee…”

“What?”

Always, _always_ there was a card. People did not give gifts without wanting something, even if it was just the chance to be remembered. Who would send a token without naming themselves…?

A certain animated voice sprang to mind.

Now Weiss not only turned but walked over to see for herself, taking the gift from the bemused valet.

A rose.

One rose, so red it almost didn’t look real in Weiss’s hands.

“Be careful Miss!” The valet’s words came to her distantly as she gently spun the flower. “Careful of the thorns!”

A sharp sting renders the warning too late, but Weiss made certain not to flinch.

She dismissed the servant a bit more off-handedly than was polite and took the rose back with her to the mirror.

Red as rubies it seemed to glow.

A brighter red than the bead of blood now tracing down Weiss’s thumb, the thorn’s bite was painful, but Weiss could not find it in herself to begrudge the flower.

She held it up, held it close and eyed the effect of scarlet on white of her reflection.

That smile was back again.

Dimly came the memory from earlier this evening, of stepping from one of the family’s ornate and armored cars and onto the theater’s grand front steps.

There had been a trellis of climbing roses, if Weiss recalled correctly. An arch of red and thorny briars.

Poor then, or at least poor at planning, was this strangely uninhibited fan of hers. She wonders if they would be forced to sneak into her next performance…

If it comes to that, then she hopes they will.

It would make finding them out all the more easier for Weiss and the family agents she would soon set on their trail.


End file.
